But Sarah wasn’t most people. She didn’t seem to understand the concept of self-preservation. Or boundaries. Or silence. She was chaos, but Lily responded to her.
That was the only reason she mattered.
I forced myself to read the same paragraph again, but the words refused to stick. My jaw tightened. I closed the laptop and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
I’d spent years perfecting the art of compartmentalization. Business in one box. Lily in another. Grief in a third, sealed shut and buried deep. There was no box for Sarah. She didn’t fit anywhere. She spilled into places she shouldn’t be, asked questions she had no right to ask, looked at me like she could see through the armor I’d welded around myself.
And I hated that.
A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts.
Mrs. Pearson stepped inside without waiting for permission—one of the few people allowed that privilege. She held a folded blanket in her hands.
“You left this in Lily’s room,” she said gently.
I took it from her. “Thank you.”
She hesitated, studying me with that perceptive gaze she’d perfected over the years. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
Because anything else would be admitting weakness. And weakness was dangerous. Weakness got people killed. Weakness had taken Joana from me.
Mrs. Pearson didn’t push. She never did. She simply nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I sat there for a long moment, blanket in my hands, the faint scent of Lily’s shampoo clinging to the fabric. My chest tightened. I folded it carefully and set it aside.
The elevator chimed again.
I checked the time. 12:01.
Sarah was punctual today. Good.
I straightened my tie, smoothed my sleeves, and stepped out of my office. I told myself it was because I needed to observe the session. Because I needed to ensure she wasn’t falling apart. Because Lily’s progress depended on consistency.
But when I reached the hallway and saw Sarah standing there—hair pulled back, eyes shadowed with exhaustion—I felt something sharp twist in my chest.
She looked smaller today. Not physically, but in the way people look when they’re carrying too much. When the world has been unkind and they’re still trying to stand upright.
She noticed me and straightened, shoulders pulling back like she was bracing for impact.
“Good morning,” she said, voice steady but thin around the edges.
I nodded. “You’re on time.”
“I always am.”
A lie. But I let it pass.
Her gaze flicked to my tie, then to the floor. She looked like she wanted to say something—maybe an apology, maybe a challenge—but she swallowed it down.
“Lily’s in the therapy room,” I said. “She’s been waiting.”
Sarah nodded and walked past me, the faint scent of rain trailing behind her. I watched her go, jaw tightening again for reasons I didn’t want to examine.
She paused at the therapy room door, hand hovering over the handle. I could see her take a breath, steady herself, pull on that bright, warm mask she used with Lily.
